Stand by, your consciousness is ready for upload. Say goodbye to the rot-filth of tangibility, and embrace the ephemeral. You cannot escape Entropy, cause brother the Universe is still dying on you. But hey, no more meat-case. You cannot escape Entropy, cause brother every time we re-upload you to split processing load, you lose a few bits and bytes of yourself. But hey, no more meat-case. So what to do, what to do in the Digital-Oblivion? Why, why not hang out at Weekend Open Bar? The weekly wank-off session at the Space-Ship OMEGA. Tunnel in to one of our android-bodies. Submit your credit codes, cause capitalism don’t need physical space. Drive that android-body up to the bar, and kick the time with us flesh-rats in the Tavern.

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This is Weekend Open Bar.

I’ve got a cold this weekend, folks. This is how bad of a cold I’ve got, I’ll tell ya, I’ll tell ya. My cold is so fucking bad that I couldn’t even finish my chimichanga. How’s that for a fucking cold? My cold is so fucking bad that my farts are thick, hateful, nightmare blasts of Theraflu chemicals and phlegm-gut. How’s that for a fucking cold?

But the Theraflu does its job, oh yes. I knew the Theraflu was doing its job earlier tonight. I knew it while I was walking the Snowbeast and out of nowhere came the thought, “Man, I’m damn comfortable, I could just lay down.” Now mind you I may live on a rather comfortable, middle-class street. But at no time should a gangly man with a SpaceX hoodie be laying on the damp concrete sidewalk, a confused Great Pyrenees alternating between lapping at her owner and struggling to break free and run into the woods for a Vision Quest.

After I had that thought, after I processed that potential consequence, I thought to myself. Well golly, I’m straight fucked-up on Theraflu!

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My wife is really good at throwing wood into the wood stove that heats our sunroom during the Winter. Someday I’m going to be typing this from a shelter, or a shack, or my backyard. You see, she’s really good at throwing it. Ashes are really good at flying into the air. Burning embers are really good at hitting the tile, and not the rug.

But woah boy!

Someday them embers are going to hit the rug. I’ve seen it.

But woah boy!

Someday them embers are going to ignite the rug, maybe the dog, definitely the house. I’ve seen it!

In fact, somewhere across the OMNIVERSE, in an incredible amount of Universes, this is happening now.

Somewhere: my pubic hair, which dangles to the ground, is igniting from those embers.

In fact, somewhere across the OMNIVERSE, in an incredible amount of Universes, this is happening now.

Somewhere: my dog, which is also a dinosaur, which is also Jesus Christ, is turning nipple milk into water, drowning those burning embers.

I’ve seen it!

Anyways — until she burns down the house here, until the embers take down this dry ass house in this dry ass state on this perpetually dry ass Planet — until then — I will be celebrating Weekend Open Bar from my couch.

Right here!

Weekend Open Bar! Come come, folks. Celebrate the weekend with me. Come come, folks. Tell me what you’re up to this weekend!

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Let’s get this out of the way. I know I live a privileged life, full of privilege-laden problems. That said, I am still colossally grateful that it is the weekend. I know I live a privileged life, full of privilege-laden problems. That said, I’m still glad that I have this wonderful little community to buoy me on my more trying weeks.

The fucking dog is fine, the fucking plumbing is fine.

It’s a long weekend.

Life’s better than okay, it’s pretty good. And, my mind will certainly plug its own psychic holes with a couple of days of sleep-based sealant applied.

So come, Comrades.

So come, citizens, voyeurs, and vacationers of the Space-Ship Omega.

Join me here in the one, the only, Weekend Open Bar.

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It’s 6:30 pm on a Friday evening here on the Eastern Seaboard of the Empire, Earth-Prime. I am pleased by it being both Friday and an evening. It can mean only one thing! It’s time for Weekend Open Bar. It can mean only two things! It’s time for Weekend Open Bar and relaxation! It can mean only three things! Four things! Five things!

An infinite amount of things cascading across an indifferent and infinite Universe!

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I’m up in Vermont for a wedding. My wife is one of two Matrons of Honor (a cowardly option for getting out of determining, in front of friends and family, your “favorite” person), so she’s off doing things. Like what? Oh, I don’t know. Helping the bride ascribe significance to a litany of generic prefabricated rituals that belong to one of the most industrialized and fabricated social customs in our culture.

But hey, that leaves me alone in our overly expensive, gaudy ass, nightmare hotel room at the inn.

To sit, crush Pepsi Max, diarrhea, get some work done. The diarrhea reminds me to drink Pepsi Max, the Pepsi Max reminds my bowels to diarrhea. Speaking of perfect unions, I think I’ve found one. An ouroboros of caffeineated-turd glory.

To refresh the typical blogs, jerk it once-twice-who-is-knocking-go-away-room-service-three times.

And! More importantly! Welcome you to Weekend Open Bar!

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God does not care if I jerk off, eat pizza, jerk off while eating pizza. I’ve explicitly asked it for permission while I did both activities. Paws filled with pizza sauce, and people sauce, and a ragged smile. God, I said. Do I have permission for this? No word. Jack, jack, eat, jack. God, I said. Are you busy? I have trouble with the fact that I’m tortured by the past and terrified of the future. No word. Jack, jack, eat, jack. God, I said. Are you busy? I have trouble with the fact that I’m in a rotting meat-case on a rotting planet, and frankly I think it’s a race to the finish line between the two of us. No word. No word. Jack, jack, eat, jack.

Citizens of OL, I say. Are you busy? It’s the weekend and I want to hang out with all of you. Click click, clack clack of the keyboard. Citizens of OL, I say. Are you busy? It’s the weekend and I want you to share everything you’re reading, eating, playing, seeing, experiencing with me. Click click, clack clack of the keyboard.

God, I said. Are you busy? Citizens of OL, I say. Are you busy? Jack, jack, eat, jack. Click click, clack clack of the keyboard.

God, Citizens, let’s spend some time together.

This is Weekend Open Bar.

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Weekend’s half over, and I’m just opening the bar. C’est la vie of a loser blogger with a moderately busy life and a poor sense of discipline. Crazy week. First week of the semester. No gentle ascent into the warm, welcoming arms of academic banality. No ma’am. No sir. Instead. Picture it. A rocket-ship. My ass gently dolloped onto the top of said rocket-ship. Instead. Picture it. Said rocket-ship rocketing into the atmosphere, my poor, sad flaccid dong-dong burning up. My hair a fury’d mess. My nipples chaffing under the duress of embracing former-Earth, my throat. Oh, my throat! A bloodied, shredded mess as I howl at the enormity of the next fifteen weeks, laugh at my general enjoyment of this madness, scream at my own anxiety and depressing encircling my brain-piece with their gnarled claws.

I’m here, though. At the Weekend Open Bar. I’m here though, hoping you’ll join me at said bar. Come hang out. Come tell me what you’re up to throughout this half-over Weekend. What are you eating-playing-reading-drinking-worshipping?

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Weekend Open Bar! And a content one at that.

My wife is home, tucked into bed. Home for the first time in more or less two weeks. Laffy Taff is in my gut, tucked into my digestive tract via my head-hole. In my gut for the first time in more or less too long. Outside, the crickets are chirping. A cool breeze passes by. Inside, the Red Sox are playing. A cool breeze passes by.

The Summer is winding down here in the Eastern arm of the Empire, and it was a damn good one for me. A mellow, unremarkable jaunt filled with teaching, quality time with my wife, some passable cinema, and a lot of really good wrestling.

I will not lament it leaving, though. For as I shed the husk of my most enjoyable Summer in years, it is being ushered out the door in lieu of the Most Wonderful time of the Year.

Fall!

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I’m tired, man. Straight fatigued. The sort of stretched-out, mentally wiped LackOf that hits on occasion. My wife has been away, the dog has been barking incessantly every morning, the glory of InfiniteMasturbation and PizzaTime that shepherded me through the early week has lost its sheen. My work has been unrelenting, and it doesn’t appear there’s a vacation on the horizon until December. Eh, fuck it. Eh, fuck it!

This is Weekend Open Bar. The yaddaYaddayadda where we YapYapYap. Please, come YapYapYap with me. Tell me what you’re EatingDrinkingWatchingReadingMashingittoo this weekend.

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